Black as the bear on Iskardoo;

Savage at heart as a tiger chained; Fleeter than hawk that ever flew,

66

Never a Muslim could ride him reined.

Runjeet Dehu! come forth from thy hold ”Wah! ten months had rusted his chain! "Ride this Sheitan's liver cold "—

Runjeet twisted his hand in the mane;

Runjeet sprang to the Toorkman's back,
Wah! a king on a kingly throne!
Snort, black Sheitan! till nostrils crack,
Rajah Runjeet sits, a stone.

Three times round the maidan he rode,
Touched its neck at the Kashmere wall,
Struck the spurs till they spurted blood,
Leapt the rampart before them all!

Breasted the waves of the blue Ravee,
Forty horsemen mounting behind,
Forty bridle-chains flung free,

Wah! wah! better chase the wind!

Chunda Kour sate sad in Jummoo:-
Hark! what horse-hoof echoes without?
"Rise! and welcome Runjeet Dehu—
Wash the Toorkman's nostrils out!

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Forty koss he has come, my life! Forty koss back he must carry me; Rajah Runjeet visits his wife,

He steals no steed like an Afreedee.

"They bade me teach them how to ride

Wah! wah! now I have taught them well!"

Chunda Kour sank low at his side;

Rajah Runjeet rode the hill.

When he came back to far Lahore-
Long or ever the night began

Spake he, "Take your horse once more,
He carries well-when he bears a man !"

Then they gave him a khillut and gold, All for his honor and grace and truth; Send him back to his mountain-holdMuslim manners have touch of ruth;

Send him back, with dances and drum
Wah! my Rajah Runjeet Dehu!
To Chunda Kour and his Jummoo home-
Wah! wah! Futtee!-wah, Gooroo!

MATTHEW ARNOLD

MATTHEW ARNOLD, English essayist and poet, son of Dr. Thomas Arnold, of Rugby, born in 1822; died at Liverpool, 1888. He graduated from Oxford with honors, receiving a prize for his poem "Cromwell." In 1857 he was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford. His prose works cover many subjects, those dealing with theology being the best known.

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN

(The MacMillan Co., Publishers),

NOME, dear children, let us away;

COME, dear chway below!

Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shorewards blow,
Now the salt tides seawards flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!

This way, this way!

Call her once before you go—

Call once yet,

In a voice that she will know:

'Margaret! Margaret!'

Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;
Children's voices, wild with pain-
Surely she will come again!
Call her once, and come away;
This way, this way!

'Mother dear, we cannot stay!

The wild white horses foam and fret.
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down!

Call no more.

One last look at the white-walled town,

And the little gray church on the windy shore;
Then come down!

She will not come! though you call all day;
Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday

We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
In the caverns where we lay,

Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream,
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye?
When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away?
Once she sate with you and me,

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.

She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.
She sighed, she looked up through the clear green

sea;

She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
In the little gray church on the shore to-day.
"Twill be Easter-time in the world-ah me!
And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee."
I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves;
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-

caves!"

She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?

"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan! Long prayers,” I said, “in the world they say; Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.

We went up the beach, by the sandy down

Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled

town;

Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,

To the little gray church on the windy hill.

From the church came a murmur of folk at their

prayers,

But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with

rains,

And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded

panes.

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!
Dear heart," I said, "
we are long alone.
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."
But, ah, she gave me never a look,

For her eyes were sealed to the holy book!
Loud prays the priest! shut stands the door.
Come away, children, call no more!

Come away, come down, call no more!